Sammy Is -
by clair beaubien
Summary: A WIP of a day in the life of Dean taking care of Sam. Ch 7: Sam is just not getting any better
1. Drunk Sammy

A/N: set vaguely later season 8. Will be a few or more chapters long, following one day in the life of Dean observing Sam.

* * *

_Drunk Sammy was usually exasperating. _

Dean found Sam where he'd least expected to find him at three o'clock in the afternoon – the bar. But when searching the bookstore, library, coffee shop, pet shop, computer shop and bakery turned up nothing, Dean headed to the bar.

There he was, his morose little brother, at the far end of the bar, hunched on the bar stool, completely alone but for the whiskey glass in his hand and the bartender at the other end of the bar.

"How many's he had?" Dean asked Wendell, the bartender. Dean knew him from his own couple of evenings here. Sam didn't notice or just didn't acknowledge that Dean was there.

"That's his third whiskey," Wendell said. Which wasn't so bad, Dean thought. Until Wendell added, "On top of his two Tequilas…"

'_Oh, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…'_ Dean thought to himself. To Wendell he said, "Send down a coffee, will you?"

"Sure thing."

Dean nodded his thanks and walked down to Sam, who still only held the half-full shot glass, and wasn't drinking it. Dean took the bar stool next to him.

"Bad day?"

"How come we never get normal?" Sam asked, almost instantly, like he'd only been waiting his chance. "Never both together at the same time. How come, hunh?"

He set the shot glass down but his voice was thick and heavy and Dean recognized that he was already seven-eighths totally blitzed.

"Because we don't, Sammy." Dean said. It was the only answer he had.

"But – why not? You know? I mean – what the hell?" He tossed back the shot then, and Dean let him. Wendell delivered the coffee, in a green ceramic coffee cup large enough to not look dwarfed next to Sam's hand. "What's that?" Sam asked.

"Coffee."

"Little early for coffee, isn't it?" Sam tried for humor, but the smile he tried with it was only a twist of pain.

"Drink it down, and I'll take you back to the room."

For a few seconds, Sam seemed like he was going to do just that. He pushed the shot glass out of the way and started to wrap his hand around the coffee cup. But then he stopped and pulled back. He put his hand around the empty shot glass again.

"No. You know what? No. Just – go. Go find Cas. Go – go – go back to – to – " Sam made a dismissive gesture, like he couldn't remember Benny's name, or he just didn't want to say it. "_He_ never let you down. I let you down; I let you down all the time. I let _everybody _down."

He tilted the shot glass and looked at it like he was considering a refill, but he set it back and pushed it away from himself. He pulled the coffee closer.

"So – just go."

Dean counted out a breath and then counted it back in.

"I've let everybody down, too. Maybe _that's_ our normal."

Sam turned a fast look on him, and Dean thought he was going to contend that Dean had never let him down.

Sure enough, Sam shook his head.

"You never let me down." He raised the coffee for a healthy swallow. "You only told me the truth and I _thought_ you let me down."

"No, Sam. I've let you've down. You know I have. We hurt each other, all the time. That's what we do." Dean pulled out his wallet and paid for Sam's overindulgence. "Now, finish the coffee and we'll go find you something to eat."

Sam nodded and drank the coffee, then he pushed himself from the barstool and followed Dean to the door.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Our normal sucks."

"Yes, it does, Sammy. Yes, it does."

to be continued...

_UP NEXT: Hung-over Sam is usually sick._


	2. Hangover Sammy

_Hung-over Sammy is usually sick. _

The bathroom was dim. Any bright light shining into the tiny room drove horrible moans out of Sam, more horrible even than the moans he was making already. Dean stood in the doorway, blunting the reflected light that was bouncing in from the outer room, watching as Sam's body tried to turn itself inside out into the toilet.

He'd shepherded Sam out of the bar in the early afternoon, and despite Sam's drunken state, had managed to get him eat the _Deluxe! Cheeseburger! Special!_ down at _Edna's! Park~N~Eat! Dinery!_

Actually, it was probably _because_ Sam had been drunk that Dean got him to eat that much greasy food. He thought the food would blunt the effect of the alcohol in Sam's system – it had in the past – but now it seemed like a really bad idea.

It was barely nine o'clock and instead of sleeping like he'd been doing since going face first into his pillows as soon as they got back to the room, Sam was jigsawed into what little space there was on the bathroom floor between tub and toilet, with one hand on the rim, one arm pressed across his heaving stomach, and his legs folded and torsioned anywhere he could get them.

"This hit you kinda fast." Dean said, when Sam's retching eased off for all of seven seconds. "I didn't think it'd get you 'til tomorrow morning."

He tried to sound supportive and unconcerned, but Sam's spasms were agonizing, even for Dean. He could see every muscle under Sam's t-shirt coiling and bunching as the next bout started, every single fiber, sinew and tendon from the top of his head right down to the bottom of his feet straining so hard with the effort of puking that any second Dean expected Sam to rupture something.

"You doing OK?" He asked when Sam was done retching, _again._

"Doh'nee'dense…" Sam slurred. He sat back as much as he could with cramped quarters and cramping muscles and pulled his discarded flannel shirt from the floor to scrub across his mouth.

"Dude, I'm not your audience; I'm your First Responder."

When that got him no answer, Dean took a step to give the vomit a check for blood and then hit the flush.

"I mean it, Sam. If this doesn't stop in five minutes, I'm taking you to the hospital."

And by 'five minutes', he meant _right now_.

"An' ris-risk m-m-me hhhurling all over y'r – y'r – _baby_?" Sam managed to rasp out. "I mus-must b-b-be _dying."_

"I'm trying to keep you _from_ dying, Sammy. I keep expecting to see a lung or something floating in there."

"Nooo, just lemme – lemme – "

But that was as far as Sam got before Puke Trolls were at it again, riping his entire digestive tract through hell's sieve before launching it out his mouth and nose. The instant it was over, he sat back hard, hitting his back against the tub, and letting out a moan that sounded like a sob. Then he turned his head like he was embarrassed or ashamed and scrubbed his mouth again with his shirt.

"No hospital, Dean. Please. Jus-just – _please_."

That was it for Dean, he stopped hanging back and sat on the edge of the tub, right against Sam.

"All right, Sammy. All right." He put his hands on Sam's shoulders and massaged the trembling, agonized muscles with his thumbs. "No hospital. But, man, you gotta stop puking up your everlasting soul."

"_T-t-trying. M-m-m'trying."_

"I know, I know you are. I just – I hate seeing you this miserable. Only _I'm_ allowed to make you this miserable."

That got him the teeniest amount of a breath that was all the laughing Sam could probably manage at the moment.

"_Thank you?"_ He asked. He coughed into his shirt, still crumpled in his hand. He sniffled and coughed again and sighed a sigh that rasped almost as much as his voice. "I think that might be it."

"How about we give it another minute before I help you up off the floor?"

"Yeah…'kay…"

They waited, Dean massaging Sam's shoulders, Sam leaning against Dean's knee.

"Hey, Sam? Next time you want to pickle your liver, give me a chance to talk you out of it, first. Okay?"

And he heard another teeny breath of laugh.

"Okay."

The End

UP NEXT: Sick Sammy is usually whiny (but adorable.)


	3. Sick Sammy

_Sick Sammy is sometimes whiny. _

Sam was getting sick. Not just the hung-over kind of sick, but actual flu or cold or exhaustion or all three battened on top of the hangover. Sam was getting sick and Dean knew it because -

"_Deeeeeeean…"_

- because Sam was getting whiny.

"…_.my throat hurts."_

"Well, yeah. You puke up four quarts of stomach acid and your throat's not gonna _thank_ you for it."

That remark was answered by a long, annoyed, huffy moan. The after-effects of Sam's afternoon with '_Jim, Jack, & Jose'_ had eased up and finally stopped, but he was already over-prone to headaches and Dean could imagine that the dehydration caused by his drinking down and then chucking up had to be causing a headache that was off the charts.

"_Deeeeeeean…"_

So Dean was pulling out the supplies that would get Sam through the rest of the night: water, aspirin, and Gatorade. And Sam -

"_I can't get this – would you - help – ugh! – this – this - it won't –" _

- Sam was in the bathroom trying to find a way out of his clothes so he could take a shower and go back to bed.

" _- oh – wait – I think I've got it - "_

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he couldn't help grinning. Nine and a half out of ten times when Sam got sick, he got quiet. The sicker he got, the quieter he got. But those one-half times, when the sickness was only physical and not emotional, when Sam could whine and moan to his heart's content because he was only sick and not broken and not worried about endangering all of humanity because he wasn't up to snuff, those one-half times –

"_Deeeeeeean…will you help me?"_

- well, as far as Dean was concerned, those one-half times put the Capital B in _Big Brother_.

UP NEXT: Sick Sammy is usually feverish.


	4. Feverish Sammy

_Sick Sammy was usually feverish. _

T-shirt had been tackled. Boot laces had been wrestled into submission. Shower was taken. Pajamas were donned. Medicine was administered – Maalox to soothe the acid-burned throat, aspirin and water for the headache, Gatorade for the dehydration.

So, before it was ten pm, drunk, hung-over, sick Sam was in bed, resting if not outright sleeping. Dean turned on the TV and found an old John Wayne movie. The one with Ricky Nelson, Sheriff Lobo, and a very young Angie Dickinson in very tight tights. Yeah, Dean decided he could watch that movie.

Now, about an hour or more in, Ricky had just started singing about some girl he had no intention of marrying when Sam decided to spike a fever.

"_It's cold. It's too cold. Why is it so cold in here?"_ Sam asked. He sounded exhausted, hung-over and raspy.

"It's not the room, Sammy. It's you." Dean pulled the top blanket off of his bed and reached over to unfold it over Sam. He wasn't surprised at the fever. Sick Sammy was usually feverish. "Here, this'll help. I think it's too soon for you to take more aspirin."

Sam pulled the blanket tight around the other blankets already pulled tight.

"Uh hunh…thanks..."

Dean went back to the tights – um, the _movie_ – and kept half an eye on Sam, who was burrowed in his blankets, but not shivering. If he started shivering, Dean would dose him up again with aspirin.

Then Sam suddenly roused and threw his blankets back.

"Sam?"

"Hot. M'hot."

Or – if Sam got too _hot_, Dean would dose him up again.

"Drink some more Gatorade. I'll get you some more aspirin."

"I can get it." Sam said. He started to push himself out of bed.

"I don't want to have to pick you up off the floor, Sammy. Let me get it."

Sam fell back with a moan and Dean went over to his duffle to scoop out the aspirin and get Sam another hit of water. He had barely unzipped the zipper when he heard the sound of Sam stumbling his way through the room, off his bed and over his backpack, around the table, into a chair, over to –

"Sammy? Where're you going?"

"Turn the heat on. M'cold. Wanna turn the heat on."

"It is on, Sam. The heat's on in here."

"Then _up_. I gotta turn it _up_."

Dean intercepted Sam on his way to the thermostat. He got him by the shoulders and turned him around.

"Go back to bed. Blankets will get you warmer a lot faster than turning the heat up will. C'mon."

Sam turned and headed back to bed.

"But turn the heat up, okay, Dean? M'cold."

"Sure thing, Sammy."

But as soon as Sam was back in bed, Dean got the aspirin and water and dosed Sam, prepared to lie if Sam asked about the thermostat.

But Sam no sooner pulled the blankets back around himself than _"It's too hot," _he pushed the blankets back off of his shoulders with an aggravated huff. His voice was rough.

"Okay." Dean set the glass on the table and sat on the bed next to Sam to feel his forehead. "Well, you're not burning up, that's good. Just let the aspirin have a chance to work."

"Yeah."

"So, tell me – why _did_ you try to pickle your liver today?"

"I didn't." Sam answered, in a voice that sounded suspiciously close to a whine. "I just – I was just –"

"_Just drinking that bartender dry."_

Sam didn't try to argue with that.

"I just – lost track."

"Mmm hmmm…" Dean said, in his '_I'm not buying it_' voice.

Sam started shivering and pulled the blankets up.

"I just – started thinking about all the times I've let you down and – and – I just wanted to _stop_ thinking it."

"So you decided to hit yourself in the head with a liquid hammer."

"I just lost track."

Dean didn't call Sam on that the second time. He stood up and picked up the empty water glass.

"Like I said, Sammy – we hurt each other. That's what we do."

"No, you've never let me down."

"Talk to me again after you sober up and your brain cells aren't slopping over." Dean said. He set the glass on the kitchen cupboard and switched off the light over the microwave. "Try and get some sleep."

"Yeah."

Dean got comfortable on his own bed and turned his attention back to Angie and her tights again. Sam burrowed under his blankets and into his pillows. Only to toss them back again a few minutes later.

"Ugh – I hate feeling this lousy."

"Don't worry." Dean said, barely hiding a smirk. "You'll feel worse in the morning."

UP NEXT: Feverish Sammy often hallucinates.


	5. Hallucinating Sammy

_Feverish Sammy sometimes hallucinates. _

Familiar sounds pulled Sam from sleep; duffle zipper being zipped, gun magazine being checked, keys clinking, light breathing, heavy footsteps.

Dean was getting ready to go out.

Sam tried to open to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He tried to turn over but every single muscle ached liked he'd been hit by a truck. Again. He tried to say Dean's name, but the stiffened shoe leather masquerading as his tongue only let out a dull moan.

"Sammy?"

The heavy footsteps came closer and a hand settled on his shoulder.

"Sammy, you finally awake?"

He tried to answer, _yes _or_ no _or_ I guess_, but could only produce that moaning sound again. He heard Dean laugh.

"I'll take that as a '_wish I was still unconscious_.' I'm going to hit that convenience store down the street. We need more Gatorade and painkillers. And mouthwash, I'm guessing. You need anything before I get going?"

Sam's eyelids finally unglued themselves and he tried to look up at Dean, but vertigo hit him like a hammer. Instead of trying to talk at all this time, he shook his head.

"Okay, I won't be long. Try and get some more sleep."

"Mmmmm…"

Dean walked away, the motel room door snicked shut and Sam drifted off again.

The sound of breathing brought him awake again. Dean must've come back already. Sam forced his eyes open.

And saw a clown.

There off the close edge of his bed, visible from the top lip up, there was a clown. Bald crown, green hair, red lip, red nose, white face, yellow eye sockets outlined in black, red eyes.

Staring at Sam.

_~it isn't real – it isn't real – it isn't real _~ Sam told himself. He had a fever, he was hallucinating, it wasn't real.

Then it started to _move_.

The clown head started to rise. It started to rise up at the edge of the mattress and the red lips gave way to white fangs dripping with red blood and its foul breath breathed hot and thick on Sam's face and Sam pushed himself away and off the bed and into the corner of the room next to the bathroom door.

_~it isn't real – it isn't real – it isn't real _~

The clown head continued to rise up. The white neck stretched and twisted, creaking and cracking and corkscrewing over the bed, until the head stopped an inch away from Sam.

Upside down.

"_Why, what'sssss the matter, Ssssam?"_ It creaked and croaked and fouled into Sam's face with its hot, dank, breath. "_Aren't you happy to ssssee me?"_

Desperately, Sam ducked under and away from the bobbing head. He crawled to the next corner, past the foot of the bed, as his brain heaved and his stomach sloshed. The hissing, grinning, bobbing head untwisted back the way it had come, the neck uncorkscrewing back to normal length, back to the other side of the bed. Where it bobbed and grinned and licked its tongue along its red, dripping fangs.

"_Doesn't Ssssssammy want to plaaaaaaaaay?"_

"You're not real." Sam told it. Told himself. "You're not. I'm hallucinating. I'm – I'm - " He had to gulp down the feeling of nausea crawling up his sandpaper throat. "_You're not real._"

The clown face pouted, its red bottom lip pushed out under its dripping red fangs.

"_Oh, Ssssssammy, that hurtssss my feeeelingsssssssss."_

The head dropped out of sight on the far side of the bed and Sam felt a second's relief, just a second. And then, slowly, sinuously, _scarily_, around the end of the bed, across the carpet, towards Sam, the clown _slithered_.

_Slithered._

Sam gasped in a breath that was half squeak, half whimper, and all liquid fire pouring down his stomach-acid-ravaged throat. He pushed himself into the corner as hard as he could and tried to get his brain to think of something other than shattering panic.

_An evil, ugly, smelly clown was slithering across the motel room floor towards him. _

The air turned suddenly hot and foul around Sam and his vision started to pulse black around the edges.

_Dean_, he thought. It was his only thought. _Dean._

The clown stopped its slitherous slide and grinned its bloody grin at Sam.

"_Sssssssssorrrrry, Ssssssssssammy. Big Brother can't ssssssave you. He'ssssss been dissssssspatched already…"_

"NO!" The command, the plea, forced itself out of Sam. The clown only laughed at him.

"_Ha, ha. Ssssssssammy. Ha. Ha. HA. HA." _It kept its jaw pressed to the floor and, with every deliberate laugh, only bounced the top of its head up and down. "_HA. HA. HA. __**HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!**_**"**

Sam couldn't take it anymore. The pain and panic and breathlessness overrode his fear. He pushed up from the floor and made a break back to his bed, dodging the hissing, twitching clown head as it made a sidewise dash to take a bite out of Sam's ankle. It kept laughing.

"_SsssssAAAAmmmYYYY…."_

Sam made it to the bed. His phone was on the bedside table. He'd grab it and call Dean. Because Dean was okay. Dean was all right. _Dean had to be all right._

He got his hand, his shaking hand, around his phone. He'd push two buttons and be talking to Dean. Two buttons. That's all it would take.

But his hands, his shaking hands, weren't steady enough. His fingers, his trembling fingers, weren't sure enough. The phone fumbled and tumbled in his grip, and when the bedside drawer popped open, and "_**BOO!"**_the clown head popped out, Sam jerked back and the phone went flying back off the bed, towards the wall, and Sam followed it.

He grabbed the phone again and all but dove into the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself. Two buttons. If he could only get his fingers to work the buttons, Dean would be here before Sam could hang up the phone.

But the phone dropped out of his sweaty hands as he pressed the buttons. It bounced on the floor and when he tried to grab it again, it slid farther away.

"_Ssssammy…"_ The clown voice followed him into the bathroom. "_Sss-sss-sss-AAAAA-mmmyyyy." _

"You're not real." He panted. "_You're not real."_

"_Ohhh booo hooooooooo._"

The voice came under the door. It was followed by a red bulge pushing under the door, pushing through to the other side, to the bathroom. The clown's nose. The clown's nose was pushing under the door. Then fingers, his grimy gloved fingers pushed under too, stretching and curling and scraping gouges in the tile.

"_Ssssaaammmmeeeeeeeeeeeee."_

Sam fell backwards onto the floor. His left elbow slammed against the tub, his right shoulder cracked against the toilet. He pulled himself back and farther back until his back hit the wall. He looked on in growing horror as the clown's full head popped up from under the door, pulling his shoulders along behind it. The fingers stretched toward Sam, long and gummy.

"You're not real. I'm hallucinating. You're not real."

"_Ssssaaammmy. Sam-Sam-Sammeeeeeeeeeeeee."_

The voice echoed all around the room. Under the door, up the sink drain, down from the ceiling, it rained down on Sam.

"_Sssssaaaammmmyyyyyyy. Are you in there, Sssssaaaaammmyyyy?"_

The shower turned on and showered bits of bits of clown down into the tub. Clown-colored slime bubbled up over the edge of the sink and dripped onto the floor. The toilet seat started bouncing frenetically, and red angry eyes glowed and glowered at Sam from behind the rim.

"_Sssssaaaammmmyyyyyyy. I'm coming for you, Sssssaaaaammmyyyy…"_

The hot air and black edges threatened Sam's vision again. He managed one last gasp, before he blacked out.

"_No. No. You're not real."_

_._

Up next: Sammy hallucinating is hard on a big brother


	6. Still Hallucinating Sammy

_Hallucinating Sammy can be hard on a big brother._

Extra-strength aspirin. Gatorade. Chicken noodle soup. Rice pudding. _Mouthwash._

Dean reviewed his purchases from the corner quickie mart as he drove back to the room. Sam was sick and bound to stay sick for another day or two at least. _Moose, _nothing. When it came to respiratory infections, Sam had all the bounce-back ability of a flat basketball. Dean was laying in supplies for the long haul.

The motel was in sight when Dean's phone rang. Speak of the Moose, he was calling. Either he thought of something he wanted or he wanted to know how soon the painkillers would be arriving.

"Hey, Sam. Miss me already?"

There was a few seconds lag, probably Sam trying to get his throat to agree to talking. Then there was a thud, Sam probably dropped the phone, and Dean smiled; as sick as Sam was, he'd be back in the room before Sam got the phone back in his hand.

Then – Dean's heart jumped into this throat and froze there – then he heard Sam's harsh, panicked voice, from somewhere not near the phone - _'You're not real. __**You're not real**__."_

"SAM!" Dean shouted into his phone. "_SAMMY_!"

There was no answer. Dean listened close as he pulled into the motel parking lot and floored it as fast as he could down to their room. He listened but there was no more sound from Sam's end of the phone call. No growls or shrieks or maniacal laughter.

Nothing from Sam.

Nothing at all.

Dean slammed the car to a stop in the parking space in front of their room. As he shut off the engine and hurried out of the car, he gave the motel room a quick once over. The door was shut, the windows were intact. No scrapes or scratches or obvious tampering.

He pulled his gun and then the room key and let himself in, on alert for anything.

Sam's bed was empty. The covers were twisted and half pulled off the bed, but there was no Sam.

"Sam?" Dean called. "_Sammy?"_

He heard something, a low noise from behind the closed bathroom door that he immediately recognized as Sam's voice. Dean was at the door in a second, ready to kick it down if he had to. But the knob turned and he went in.

And saw Sam's legs sticking out from the far side of the toilet, where he should never have been able to fit.

"Sam?" Dean stowed his gun and went to his brother. Sam was wedged awkwardly between the wall and the side of the tank and toilet. His eyes were wide and panicked, and his breath was coming so fast he was close to hyperventilating. Dean crouched near his feet. "Sammy?"

"C-c-clown." Sam stuttered out, breathless. His eyes didn't focus on Dean and his voice was even rougher than when he woke up. "C-c-c-clown. B-b-bed. And –and – " Sam made a swirling motion with his hand. "And - upside down. And – bite. It – Dean – " Sam swallowed hard and finally looked at Dean. "_It crawled in under the bathroom door."_

Dean looked around the bathroom but saw no evidence of anything clown-like. Hallucinations. Great.

"Okay. It's OK, Sam. There's no clowns. C'mon, let's get you out of there. Get back to bed. I've got more medicine for you. C'mon."

He reached in and took hold of Sam's arms, planning to pull Sam from his foxhole. But Sam grabbed hold of Dean.

"_It was in the toilet."_ He told Dean in a rough whisper, like the thing might hear him. "_It was staring at me from under the toilet seat."_

Well, _that_ was a creepy image.

"It was just an hallucination, Sam. It's not real." Dean told him, keeping his voice even and calm. "You've got a fever, you're burning up. You were hallucinating. C'mon out of there."

Dean tugged and Sam twisted and soon he was away from the toilet, sitting still on the floor with his back against the tub. He pulled his knees up and bent his head down, putting his hands over his face. He was shaking and Dean didn't know if it was fear or fever.

So Dean eased himself up to sit on the edge of the tub and Sam leaned his shoulder against Dean's knee.

"I think you've spent more time in the bathroom the past twenty four hours than anywhere else," Dean said.

"_Sorry."_

Dean sighed.

"It's not you being sick that's the problem. Other than – you know – you being sick. But I'm still fuzzy on why you got blitzed to start with."

Sam sighed, and swallowed, and lifted his head to look at Dean.

"Help me get back to bed?"

Not everything Dean wanted to hear. But he sighed, too.

"Yeah, c'mon. Can you get to your feet?"

Dean stood, helping Sam up with him, and they took the three or four short steps to the bathroom door. Sam stopped there and peered out into the room. Dean hated to ask, because they'd been down this road too many times in the past, but he asked.

"Do you see it?"

And like too many times in the past, Sam nodded.

"Under my bed. I see its eyes."

"Okay." Dean put one hand on Sam's back and the other hand he put on Sam's arm to pull his attention away from the bed. "Hey - look at me, okay? You know it's not real, right?" Another well-worn road they'd been down. "You know it can't hurt you."

"I know." Sam said, but he sounded weary. His face was flushed with fever, his skin was hot and dry, his voice was gravel, and he sounded _so weary_.

"We'll get you some more medicine and get you some more rest and I'll take clown watch. Okay?"

"It said it hurt you."

"But it didn't. And it can't. Okay? Hallucination or not, no clown is taking me down, right?"

And Sam's mouth twitched a smile and he nodded, "Right," and looked towards his bed again.

"It's still there."

Dean sighed. Again. He wanted Sam to rest, but Sam wouldn't get any rest if there was a clown under the bed. Even an imagined clown.

"Okay. Here. C'mon, let's put you in my bed. That's a certified clown-free zone."

"_It is?" _Sam asked. Dean had said it as an automatic, off-hand remark, but Sam was ready and eager to take it as the absolute truth. Dean smiled at the feeling it gave him to have Sam believe him so easily and be comforted.

"You bet it is. C'mon. Close your eyes if you want to. Just listen to me and let's get you over there. Okay?"

"Okay."

They started the short trek across the motel room towards the far bed, Dean's bed. Dean kept his hand on Sam's back and Sam kept his eyes closed.

"Okay, so we're going to get you into bed. I'll get you some more medicine, maybe some soup. Right?" Dean talked more to distract Sam than any other reason, to keep his attention focused on something other than what was or wasn't under the bed.

"Soup would be good." Sam agreed.

"I got chicken noodle. The kind with noodles shaped like cars from 'Cars'."

That made Sam open his eyes and look at Dean.

"'_Cars'_?"

"Hey – it's a good movie…"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head and sighed, but Dean saw a smirk, too.

"The Impala know you're cheating on her?"

"Hey, Baby knows I'd _never_ cheat on her…here, we're at the bed. Have a seat."

Sam started to sit, then stopped and bent sideways a little, trying to see – Dean knew – under the bed. Dean held his breath. If there was a clown under there, their next choice was Sam sleeping in the car. Which normally wasn't a problem, but Sammy with a one hundred and five fever wasn't normal. _Knock wood._

"What's the verdict?" Dean asked, when Sam didn't say anything or move any farther.

"No." Sam shook his head. "Nothing."

"Okay? We're good?"

Sam straightened up, slowly. The look he gave Dean didn't inspire any confidence that he was okay sitting – much less lying down – on the bed.

"Sammy, c'mon. You need to lie down before you collapse. It's an hallucination, it can't hurt you. Once we get some more medicine in you and your fever goes down, the hallucinations will go away. Okay?"

Sam nodded and swallowed.

"My throat hurts."

"Okay. We'll take care of that, too. C'mon."

So Sam stretched himself out on the bed with a deep, whistling, sigh.

Now, _now,_ came the hard part.

"Okay." Dean started. "I'm going out to the car to get the –"

That was as far as he got and Sam was sitting up on the bed in a heartbeat.

"What? Why? What's in the car? Where's the car? You said – you said – "

"Hang on, hang on, Sammy." Dean tried to cut him off. "I just have to get the bag of stuff from the store. The medicine. The car's right outside the door. Ten feet there and back." Okay, more like twenty five but this was no time to be accurate. "I swear. There and back."

Sam didn't say anything but by the look on his face he wasn't relenting either.

"You're safe, Sam. Clown-free zone, remember? It's just an hallucination."

"_I don't care if it's hallucinations."_ Sam snapped at him. "It's – it's – "

He didn't finish and he didn't have to. Dean knew what Sam didn't say – it was _scary._ Never mind that Sam had survived hell, had survived Plucky's, had killed hundreds of monsters and saved hundreds of lives, had survived broken Walls and mind-shattering grief. Never mind that he was Sam Winchester, Destroyer of All Things Evil. He was sick and exhausted and _scared _of an imaginary, fever-induced clown.

"You wanna come out to the car with me while I get the bag?"

Sam hesitated, like he was realizing just how silly that was, but then his eyes cut over to his bed for a long few seconds and he turned back to Dean and nodded.

"All right, c'mon. It's not cold out, you don't need shoes. It'll only take a minute. We'll get you the medicine and see about getting your fever down. Okay?"

Sam got out of bed on the side closest to the door and Dean let him go out the door first. Sam had to feel miserable - sick, achy, sore-throat, high-fever miserable – but he went out to the car and stood there while Dean snagged the bag of supplies from the front seat.

"Okay. Let's get you inside and taken care of."

He led the way back inside, shut the door, and waited until Sam had done another visual sweep under the bed before getting back in and sitting against the headboard, arms and legs and feet safely pulled close, to get him a glass of water and a dose of medicine.

"I'll make you some soup and you get some more rest. OK?"

"Yeah, OK." Sam nodded. "Thanks."

Dean smiled.

"You're welcome, Sammy."

~SPN~ ~SPN~ ~SPN~

Up next: sicker Sammy is harder on a big brother.


	7. No Hospital Sammy

_Clown-free zone. Clown-free zone. _Sam repeated it in his head. _Dean's bed was a clown-free zone._

Even after soup ~ with _Cars-_shaped noodles ~ and more medicine and more Gatorade, Sam wasn't feeling any better. His acid-burned throat burned worse. He couldn't breathe any deeper than a pant, no matter how hard he tried. His skin was so hot, it felt shrunken.

And whenever he turned to look over his shoulder, his bed was swarming with clown heads on spider-clown bodies that waved brightly colored spidery little legs at him. They were swarming the walls and the ceiling and the bedside table, coming closer and closer to Dean's bed each time.

One more look and they'd be at his bed.

_Clown-free zone. Clown-free zone. Clown-free zone, _Sam thought desperately. _Clown-free zone._

"Eyes on me, Sam." Dean said, again. He said it every time Sam looked back at his bed.

Dean was in a dinette chair at the side of the bed closest to the front window. He had a book in his hand and one foot on the edge of the mattress, holding the chair back at a tilt. Sam turned back towards him, trying to get comfortable on the pillow, pulling the blanket closer, trying not to feel tiny spidery clowny legs buzzing up and down his arms and legs and over his toes and around his fingers and over his ears and into his mouth and –

"NO!" Sam sat up and threw the blanket back, clawing at his arms, digging at his pajamas, scrubbing across his face, desperately trying to scrape off the feeling of skittering monster clown insects tunneling into his skin. "Get off! Get off me!"

Dean dropped the book and his chair slammed down to all four legs as he reached for Sam.

"Nothing's there. Nothing's there, Sam. C'mon. You know nothing's there."

He tried to hold Sam's hands still but Sam pulled one free to drag through his hair.

"_They're all over me. Get them off of me."_ Sam pleaded. "_Get them off."_

"No, they're not. There's nothing on you, Sam. C'mon. C'mon. Look at me. Sam, look at me. Just look at me."

Dean got hold of Sam's hands then and held them still, but Sam still felt the skittery, tunnely, clowny buzzing that was making his skin twitch and burn as he looked at Dean.

"C'mon, Sam. Okay? It's hallucinations. You're burning up. There's nothing on you. Okay? Clown-free bed, remember?"

"But – but – "

"But what?"

"But – they're _spider clowns_." Sam whispered. "Hats and noses and –and –" His hand made the squeezing gesture because he couldn't think of the name and he wanted Dean to get what he meant " - _clown_ _horns._"

Dean's face did that thing then, that 'really want to laugh but trying really hard not to' thing.

"Okay. And that sounds really creepy." Dean spoke slowly, exaggeratedly slowly. Probably because he was still trying not to laugh. "But they're not real, Sammy. You're hallucinating."

"_They're on me."_ Sam whispered.

Dean pursed his lips, and scrubbed his hand over his face.

"All right. Hold on. Just – hold on. I'm just going to the fridge, okay? Not leaving the room. Hold on."

When Dean let go of Sam's hands to walk to the fridge, Sam held out for all of three seconds before he scrubbed at the tiny monsters again, futilely trying to force them off of his arms and legs and out of his hair. He barely realized when Dean came back and only just barely heard him say,

"All right, here. Sit forward, here."

"_Get them off."_

"We will. We'll get them off by getting your fever down, all right? Lean forward, I've got ice. Sam, sit forward and let me put it on your neck."

Sam's kept swiping and scrubbing and clawing at the multicolored little invaders, but he sat forward like Dean asked and bent his head down and Dean set a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a t-shirt across his neck.

"_It's not working."_ Sam complained. Whined.

"Dude, y'gotta give it more than half a second." Dean said. Then he put his hand against Sam's forehead again and sighed. "All right, you know what? We gave this long enough. Time for the hospital."

"NO!" Sam said. He tried to sit up but the ice started to slide off and Dean pressed him forward again and resituated the ice. "No hospital." Sam ended up saying it down to his knees. "Dean, _please_. No hospital."

"I said we'd wait and see, and we've waited. But Sammy - c'mon." Dean sat on the bed in front of Sam. "When you start seeing spider clowns with gag horns, it's time to go to the hospital."

"But - " Sam turned his head as much as he could towards Dean without losing the ice. "But it's _hallucinations_."

"Exactly. Hallucinations that need to be taken care of."

Sam knew the moment Dean got what he was talking about. The 'duh' roll of his eyes and the huff of annoyance at himself.

"Hey," Dean said, quietly. He put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "They're not going to put you on the psych floor for fever-induced hallucinations, okay? I wouldn't let them and they won't want to. Okay?"

"They're going away, they are." Sam insisted. He curled his hands and into fists and willed himself to stop scrubbing at the frenzied little monsters still swarming over him. "Really, Dean, they are. They're going away."

Dean huffed again and leaned close.

"No, they aren't." He said, softly and slowly. "You're sick, Sam. _Physically_ sick. Your throat's infected, you have a high fever, and you're having hallucinations. It's time to go to a doctor and get you well again. Okay? All right? I'll make some calls and see if there's a doctor we don't have to go to a hospital to see. But you need to see one."

Sam's body shuddered under the onslaught of clown spiders, but he gripped his fists closed tighter to keep himself from swiping at them. He sat up and looked full at Dean. The ice pack fell off to the side.

"Promise." He said. Asked. Needed to hear Dean say.

"No psych ward. Sammy, I promise."

Sam waited one more second, maybe the clowns would stop _now._

But they didn't. They didn't stop.

"Okay. Find a doctor. Okay."

He fell back onto the bed and started swiping at them again.

.

Next: _Sick Sammy is still a know it all._


End file.
